


orange blossoms shaking loose

by infernal



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, We All Need Years Of Therapy But Let's Try Sex Instead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 10:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20947100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infernal/pseuds/infernal
Summary: Dorian's wants and Dorian's needs are a Venn diagram; luckily, Bull's there to find the space in the middle.





	orange blossoms shaking loose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Penknife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penknife/gifts).

> I hope you enjoy, Penknife! This was inspired by a lot of your tags for this fandom, but ultimately really only hit this one in particular, imo -- my apologies for that!

Dorian does his best not to scowl as he catches yet another Skyhold resident giving him a suspicious glare as they pass in the courtyard. He's been with the Inquisition for months; one would think he had proven himself by now, given all the times he's saved the Inquisitor -- and the world, in fact, if one counts preventing a future infested with red lyrium from ever coming to pass. And yet the sidelong glances keep coming. The person in the courtyard isn't even the first person today to look at him like he's worth less than the mud on their boot.

At his side, the Iron Bull chuckles, and Dorian's scowl manifests in full. "Have I missed something amusing?" he asks, tone clipped.

"You're letting them get under your skin again," Bull says, shaking his head and nudging Dorian in the arm.

"It's unfair, you know, that you're the spy and yet I take the brunt of the suspicion," Dorian grouses. "_I'm_ not the one who was probably given a dossier on how to ingratiate themselves into the Inquisition."

Bull's not chuckling now, but his eye glints with humor. "Only for the higher-ups," he points out. "And they all trust you, anyway. It's everyone else who's got you in a huff, and you don't give a shit about their opinions. Besides, the intel didn't exactly prepare me for everything, believe me." 

"How so?" 

Bull sighs as they reach the door of the tavern. "A few paragraphs on Inquisition structure, a long and terrifying biography of Leliana, and a sentence tacked on at the end that read 'their Herald is a bas-sarebaas so frightened to be free of a leash that he binds himself with mindless pleasures.'" 

His words have Dorian's back up -- it's the kind of thing Bull says sometimes, where a comment is a dig at someone else, but maybe also you -- but then the door opens, and Dorian takes in the sight of Inquisitor Maxwell Trevelyan, the blessed Herald of Andraste himself, standing on top of Cabot's bar, drinking ale straight from a keg with a crowd cheering him on. Dorian sighs, the fight going out of him. "And how, exactly, did that fail to prepare you?" 

Bull shrugs. "Well, they could have mentioned the shitty weather."

* * *

A few hours later, Dorian is well into his cups himself, drunk enough that he's switched from wine to the Ferelden swill that Cabot claims to be ale. He sips it as Sera chatters on, regaling them all with a story of a sexual escapade so outlandish that Dorian is actually convinced it's true. He's only half-listening; the rest of his attention is on Bull, who's sitting to Dorian's right, close enough that their legs are pressed together. 

Dorian's taking another drink when he's hit with a balled up piece of parchment, and the surprise of it has him spluttering his ale back into his tankard, which sends a roar of laughter around the table. "Your turn," Sera says in a sing-song voice, and he narrows his eyes. "I told, and Bull told, and Krem told, and now you gotta. What's the weirdest place you've ever done it?" 

"It?"

"_It_," she says, waggling her eyebrows.

Dorian's drunk enough to give an honest answer. "Beneath a stall at a street market, perhaps. Or in the balcony at the theater. Oh, or the dwarven embassy in Minrathous," he says, and Sera hoots.

"What were you even doing _there?_"

"_It_," he intones, and she collapses into a fit of laughter before moving onto her next target.

"Inky, how about you?" 

Dorian relaxes as Maxwell launches into a story even less plausible than Sera's, the tension he didn't even realize he was holding seeping out of him. Bull notices -- of course he notices somehow, despite the fact that he can't even _see_ Dorian on his left -- and stretches nonchalantly, letting his arm slip over Dorian's back for a moment before returning to his previous position.

Bull has been touching him frequently as of late, mostly to soothe, sometimes to tease. Dorian knows a slow seduction when he sees it, despite never having been the subject of one himself, and it's -- interesting. Frustrating, the way he's driven to distraction so frequently, but flattering, and Dorian _does_ love to be flattered. He finds it infuriating, too: how Bull can give away touches like it's easy, like they're nothing at all; how he says the most delightfully sordid lines to Dorian in full hearing of other people, and how Dorian prickles every time, as though suddenly the people they've been fighting beside for months will turn him out.

Tonight, though, the ale is flowing freely, and anything scandalous that anyone remembers about the evening will almost certainly be Maxwell-related, so Dorian finishes his drink and, after a moment, lets him slump against Bull, feigning sleepiness.

* * *

Another few hours and Bull is helping Dorian back to his quarters. Dorian is sober enough by now that it's unnecessary, but he's enjoyed the warmth of Bull pressed into him all night, and he's greedy enough that he's willing to keep up the pretense of being drunk, even though he knows Bull sees right through him.

"Thank you," Dorian says, more than a little regretfully, once they've reached their destination and Dorian's unlocked the door. "Good night, Bull." 

"Good night," Bull says, and then walks into Dorian's room before him. He laughs when he looks back at Dorian, still standing in the doorway with a flustered expression on his face. "What? It's not gonna be a good night if you crack your neck trying to put your drunk self to bed." 

"Of course," Dorian says, a smile tugging at his lips as he steps into the room and shuts the door. "Where are my manners?" 

The room is mostly dark, with the fireplace host to nothing but embers. Bull sits down on the rug in front of it nevertheless, wincing a little and stretching out his bad leg in front of him. Dorian sits beside him -- too close, probably, but he knows the game they're playing, and it's not like any conclusion Bull reaches is going to be the wrong one. "Is there a reason we're down here?" he asks. 

"Well, I thought about bringing you to bed, but I wouldn't want to give you the wrong impression," Bull says. 

"And what impression is that?" 

"That I'm the kind of person who would hide you away in the dark," he replies, and something feels like it's shaking loose in Dorian's chest.

"Honestly, the things you say," Dorian says, a little proud when his voice comes out with all the practiced flippancy of someone who's spent their whole life pretending to be unaffected by everything.

He suspects Bull takes that unaffectedness as a challenge, because a moment later, Bull leans in and presses a biting kiss to Dorian's lips. Dorian reaches up and slides a hand around to rest on the back of Bull's neck -- he's not strong enough to hold him there, of course, but he's being kissed so thoroughly that it's just about the only motion he can manage.

"Honestly, the things you _do_," he says when Bull finally breaks for air, and then he surges up to kiss the laughter from Bull's mouth.

Dorian tries, multiple times even, to quicken the pace, but Bull seems content to keep things steady -- thorough, but slow, and Dorian is accustomed to more hurried liaisons, rushed moments in darkened corners, away from prying eyes. He shifts impatiently, and Bull chuckles. "Something wrong, Dorian?"

"You're _not_ attempting to make me beg, I trust?" Dorian says; the imperious tone he's trying for is considerably undermined by his breathlessness.

"Nah, just wondering why you're acting like we don't have all the time in the world. Slow down and enjoy it." 

"That's not really my speed," Dorian says. "Pun very much intended." 

"No? Didn't get take your time under the booth in that street market? Rushing to finish at the theater before someone saw you at intermission?"

Dorian's temper flares. "I suppose I might also want to take it slow if it was my first time fucking someone who actually had any idea who I was," he says waspishly, and is immediately aware that he's overstepped when Bull's fingers stop their gentle movement against Dorian's scalp for a moment before giving his hair a reproving tug. 

"You've really never had someone work you over, have you?" Bull asks, and then snorts. "Not physically, anyway." In a flash, he's moved them so Dorian's got his back against the floor, Bull's weight keeping him pinned there. "You want it fast, I can do it fast," he says, and finally -- finally! -- those strong hands are pulling Dorian's clothes away with absolutely no care, and Dorian arches up against him, glad he hasn't ruined this, glad that Bull is ready to give him what he wants instead of what Bull _thinks_ he wants.

Dorian tries to help with the disrobing, but with Bull pressed against him like he is, he can do little more than lift his hips to help Bull pull his robes up over them, and it's perfect, the way Bull doesn't bother to take them off all the way, just flips him over so he's face-down against the carpet. Bull moves back for a moment, but before Dorian can protest, Bull is back over him, pressing oil-slicked fingers between Dorian's cheeks.

"Were you planning for this, or do you always carry oil in those ghastly circus tents you call trousers?" Dorian says, and he can feel Bull's shrug against him.

"What can I say? I'm an optimist," he says, and Dorian gasps out a laugh as Bull's finger presses into him. It's not a new sensation for Dorian by any means, but when Bull keeps going long after Dorian is already writhing back against him -- well, _that's_ something new.

"Again, I hope you're not trying to make me beg," Dorian says as Bull begins to work a fourth finger into him.

"You know, the more you say that, the more it sounds like that's your way of begging," Bull says, voice almost conversational as he works Dorian open. "You're lucky I'm in a giving mood."

Dorian hears the familiar sound of oil being spread over a cock, and then a moment later he's _seeing_ that action take place, because Bull's flipped him back over again. He looks entirely too composed, and Dorian hates him for it -- but then Bull is hooking one of Dorian's legs up over his shoulder and then finally pushing his cock into him, and Dorian's momentary hatred entirely dissipates.

Dorian's been with well-endowed men before, but Bull puts the largest of them to shame. Dorian feels like he's being split open, and he relishes the sensation, his mouth falling open against as Bull pushes into him excruciatingly slowly. Bull pauses once he's bottomed out, and Dorian's never been this full before, but he still manages to arch an eyebrow at Bull. "I believe you said something about _fast_," he says.

"Whatever you want," Bull says, and there's something in his voice that makes Dorian thinks he means it, perish the though; it's a worrying notion, but one that's easy enough to put aside when Bull finally starts to move.

It's blessedly silent now, save for the noises of their bodies meeting, and Bull's heavy breaths in Dorian's ear, and the sounds that Dorian can't quite keep in. He's normally good at being quiet -- he's had to be -- but Bull is filling him up better than anyone ever has before, and he's hitting the right spot with every thrust. _I could come just from this_, Dorian realizes dazedly, and the thought is enticing enough that when Bull reaches for Dorian's cock, Dorian slaps his hand away.

Bull groans at that, and it's like a switch has been flipped, because he's fucking Dorian even faster, and he's talking again, a continuous stream of filth in Dorian's ear, all _I knew you'd look so good stuffed full of my cock_ and _knew you'd take it so well_ and _wanna mark you up so good that everyone knows just by looking at you what we've been doing,_ and it's that last one that has Dorian coming, cock still untouched. Bull swears, fucking Dorian through his orgasm for a few more thrusts before pulling out and stroking himself. It's a mouth-watering sight, and Dorian wants nothing more than to lend a hand, or perhaps a mouth, and that hunger must show on his face because Bull swears again before he's coming, all over Dorian's chest and the floor around them.

Bull collapses heavily onto the floor beside Dorian, who's still catching his breath. "I'm going to have to throw out this rug," Dorian says faintly, and Bull laughs, full and throaty. Dorian finds himself laughing too, and it's absurd -- he doesn't know the last time he felt this good after sex, if he ever has at all. Typically it's all just averted gazes, awkward silences, the hurried race to regain composure; now, though, Bull is just looking at him, self-satisfied and a little fond, and that feeling in Dorian's chest is back -- the dangerous one, that feels like something shaking loose.

Shoving that feeling away to unpack later, he sits up, deciding to face the regrets that are inevitably going to happen sooner rather than later. "Well, I suppose I should thank you for the lovely evening," he says, hating the practiced superficiality that makes its way back into his voice with such ease. 

"Thank me later," Bull says, stretching, and he's reaching out to push Dorian back onto the (terribly, _terribly_ unsalvageable) rug again.

"I beg your pardon?" Dorian says.

"_Finally_ he begs," Bull says, and Dorian can't help but laugh despite his confusion. "I mean, I thought we were compromising here. You wanted it fast, I wanted to spend the whole night taking you apart. No reason both of those things can't happen."

"I suppose not," Dorian says, even as Bull looks at him with that heated, steady, impossibly fond expression, even as the feeling in his chest blossoms into something bigger, something that isn't new but doesn't usually come without an ugly pang of pain. He sighs, long and dramatically. "Well, are you going to do anything? I'd be rather disappointed if you were hoping to hear me beg."

"I really do think that counts as begging, you know," Bull says, but he's still only too happy to oblige.


End file.
